


a nymph, in thy orisons

by scarlett_the_seachild



Series: on the heels of eden [2]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassins & Hitmen, Canon Era, Conspiracy, Insecurity, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Spies & Secret Agents, Suicidal Thoughts, boyfriends argue, but its ok they make up, the conway cabal - Freeform, with handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 06:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: Something is rotten in the state of Pennsylvania. Tallmadge sends Hamilton to find out what.





	a nymph, in thy orisons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cattlaydee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattlaydee/gifts).



> This is an entirely ridiculous and inaccurate retelling of the Conway Cabal, written as a gift for the wonderful cattlaydee who helped me out in a hard time.
> 
> N.B. at the risk of causing further embarrassment (ur probably getting very sick of my endless thanks from tumblr but i have A LOT OF FEELINGS) I just wanted to say a quick something in regard to recent events. I've only just been made aware of all the drama that's gone down surrounding some authors on this site. i don't really wanna dwell on it, not least because i actually found it very upsetting as I admired and respected both writers a lot up to this point. But just to say i'm truly very grateful that there are still people out there who restore my faith in humanity, people willing to impart a small act of kindness to a complete stranger not because there's anything in it for them but because they just fancied doing something nice. i know I've said it a lot but honestly, I dont have the words to thank you not just for your help but what it represented to me.
> 
> ahem. ok. that's it, i'm done. enjoy the porn.

Saratoga was won, and the vibes were good. Despite the souring fact that it was Horatio Gates who was man of the hour rather than anyone nicer, the spirits at Valley Forge were riding high. Hamilton, for possibly the first time since being made Colonel, could find nothing to complain about and was only really doing it for enjoyment’s sake. They were aware they were all swiftly becoming caricatures of themselves – Hamilton; bossy, fiery, short-tempered and short full-stop. McHenry wry, Lafayette vain and theatrical. Laurens; very funny, when he wanted to be, and brooding or violent when he didn’t. The sad jester. Characters in a play that had been put on for God’s entertainment, because there weren’t any kings here in this wilderness of North America.

Tonight, however, the play was going well. Tilghman grabbed another bottle of whiskey from the newly increased rations, pouring everyone what he probably thought were generous helpings while managing to slop most of the liquid onto the table.

“To Horatio Gates,” he said, raising his glass.

Hamilton cringed. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like him,” said Hamilton.

Tilghman tried to share an exasperated look with literally anyone else. Lafayette obliged, but only because he hated to leave a man hanging.

“Don’t you think it’s time you set aside your personal grievances and admitted credit where it’s due?” Tilghman asked.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “I _don’t_ think the credit’s due,” he replied. “Benedict Arnold is the one who deserves laurels rather than that pedestrian. Arnold’s temperament is an impediment to his merit, alas.”

“Poor Yorick,” McHenry added.

 Laurens reached over the back of the couch and poked him with a stick.

 _“Ouch!”_ McHenry yelped, whirling round. “What the _fuck_ Laurens!”

“No Shakespuns.”

“But you just…that is a… _goddammit_ John.”

“Gates was lucky Howe got himself stuck in Philadelphia,” Hamilton continued. “And Burgoyne found himself isolated. It was a British loss rather than a patriot win.”

“Why do you always have to make everything terrible,” Lafayette grumbled, pulling a face at the whiskey and reaching for the wine.

“Good point,” McHenry nodded. “Why do you have to make everything terrible, Alexander?”

“I’m not,” Hamilton rolled his eyes. “I’m happy we won, obviously. I just don’t think we need to turn a blind eye to the facts just because fortune turned in our favour for once.”

“ _Audentes fortuna iuvat.”_

Laurens poked him again.

“That wasn’t Shakespeare!”

“Gratuitous Latin. Seriously man, if you can’t refrain from saying something pretentious, don’t say anything at all.”

“Who gave Laurens a stick?” Meade frowned. “Like, who was it who made that decision?”

Laurens clutched his stick defensively. “I found it.”

“And you kept it because…?”

“It’s magic,” said Laurens, and grinned ferally. “It keeps me from getting hangovers.”

Meade raised an eyebrow, thinking to himself that it was being perpetually drunk that kept Laurens from getting hangovers rather than any magic stick, but said nothing.

Hamilton was grinning. “Magic stick,” he said.

Laurens twirled it in his hands like a baton. “You doubt it?” he asked casually.

Hamilton shook his head. “Never.”

“Laurens,” Lafayette slurred, his accent thick with wine. “Wave your magic baguette and make Horatio Gates disappear.”

The command was met with an outburst of laughter to the extent that Tilghman actually squealed, hurling himself over the back of the couch.

 _“Quelle?”_ Lafayette asked Hamilton, perplexed.

“Magic baguette,” Tilghman gasped from the floor. “Oh my God. I can’t cope.”

“In English, we say ‘wand’,” Hamilton explained. _“Comme bâton._ He is imagining Laurens twirling a large piece of bread at Horatio Gates.”

“Ah,” Lafayette nodded in comprehension, brow clearing to make way for a smile. “I understand. Yes, that would be very funny.”

“To be perfectly fair,” McHenry pointed out. “If Laurens came at me twirling a large piece of bread, it would probably be my first instinct to run away.”

Laurens fixed McHenry with a very serious gaze, leonine eyes flashing with gold. “I promise you James,” he said solemnly. “If I came at you twirling my magic baguette, running away would be the last thing on your mind.”

Hamilton snorted, causing whiskey to go down the wrong way and came back up spluttering.

“Where is Tallmadge?” Meade asked when Hamilton had suitably recovered. “I don’t think I’ve seen him since we heard the news about Saratoga. He never celebrates with us.”

“You’re right,” Tilghman agreed. “He’s becoming quite the misanthrope, shut up in his tent with his letters and his eggs. Anyone any idea what’s up with that, by the way?”

Laurens shrugged. “I thought he was trying to bulk up.”

“I should think one would become a misanthrope, with everything he has to deal with,” Hamilton said, taking another sip of whiskey. “Is it just me, or is the General looking increasingly…harried these days?”

McHenry frowned. “You think more so than usual?”

Hamilton nodded. “I hesitate to say ‘nervous’,” he explained. “But he seems to me touchy. On edge. And Tallmadge too. The both of them are more anxious than I’ve ever seen them.”

“Perhaps you should take over from Tallmadge,” Meade joked. “Intelligence seems to be your forte. I confess, I’ve noticed nothing of the sort.”

Hamilton waved dismissively. “Ah, well. It’s just a theory,” he said. “Perhaps I’m just looking for a reason why I can’t ask Washington a question without him going off like a goddamn canon. Like a dragon I had poked with Laurens’ stick. That _wasn’t_ an invitation,” he added, glaring at Laurens warningly.

“I should hope not,” said Laurens idly. “I respect the General very much, but I don’t think we’re quite on that level.”

There was a resounding chorus of _Ugh John_ and _For fuck’s sake Laurens_ while the offender cackled wickedly, concluded by McHenry’s “And on that note”. There was a scraping of chair legs as the company staggered clumsily to their feet, trading half-hearted salutes and goodnights as they tried to locate the door. Only Hamilton remained sitting, idly sipping the remaining dregs of his whiskey, one leg thrown casually over the other. While an unremarkable gesture on any other man it was curiously feminine on him, made more so by the rich dark red of his hair as it lay on his shoulders, loosened from its ribbon. As the others filed out the room his eyes remained on Laurens, heavily-lidded, both piercing and sultry under the long fan of his eyelashes. Laurens felt the skin around his neck and face heat up; he downed his last glass in the hope that it would cool him.

Lafayette was the last to leave, closing the door behind him. Hamilton’s eyes flickered to it briefly before returning to Laurens. Laurens tried to keep his returning gaze steady and his voice level when he spoke.

“Not tired, Hamilton?” he asked casually.

Hamilton shook his head. It was more of a twitch, almost imperceptible. Not for the first time that night, Laurens regretted drinking the whiskey. It had done nothing to cool the blood, surging through his veins like galloping stallions in heat, sending his heart thumping so hard he could feel it in his throat. It was a mystery to himself why he bothered drinking so much, when a heavily-lidded look from Hamilton could render him just as useless.

Hamilton stood up, pushing the chair delicately away from him as he made his way across the room to where Laurens was sat in the arm chair. His movements were careful, precise. The only clue that he was also very drunk. Laurens held his breath, hands moving automatically to Hamilton’s waist as he swung one leg over Laurens’ until he was straddling him.

“Hey baby,” he breathed out as Hamilton immediately put his mouth to the crook of his neck.

“I missed you,” Hamilton whispered, biting a little against Laurens’ skin.

Laurens’ chuckle hitched in his throat. “I’ve been here this whole time.”

Hamilton hummed in what could either have been agreement or scepticism. Laurens felt the vibrations all the way down his body, running straight to his groin. “I know,” he said. “It’s been putting me out of my mind. You there, only a few feet away, and being unable to do this. Having to hide what you do to me.”

Laurens let his head fall against the back of the armchair as Hamilton continued to kiss his neck. He could feel the scratch of stubble on Hamilton’s jaw and the sensation sent a trill of excitement straight through him, as well as the inevitable twinge of guilt and repulsion that always accompanied it. He ran his hands through Hamilton’s long, auburn hair; enough like a girl’s that he could convince himself it wasn’t really so much of a sin.

“Magic stick,” Hamilton muttered, moving away from his neck. “You do talk such shit, John.”

Laurens laughed, only a little bitterly. “Yes,” he agreed. “I know.”

“More shit than me,” Hamilton continued. “Nonsenses or poetries. I can scarcely keep up.”

“Perhaps you are rubbing off on me.”

Hamilton chuckled lowly. He was working on undoing the front of Laurens’ breeches. Laurens arched his hips forwards, his mouth catching Hamilton’s and for a moment they both faltered, lost in the sensation. Laurens slid his hands round to the small of Hamilton’s back, bringing him closer to him as he slid in his tongue. Hamilton moaned, opening his mouth wider to meet him and rolling his hips so that Laurens could feel him growing hard inside his breeches.

Laurens felt Hamilton’s hand, warm and dry, pressing against his cock. He gasped, lower-half jerking uncontrollably as his eyes flickered open.

“What are you doing?” he asked breathily.

Hamilton quirked an eyebrow. “What does it look like?”

“You’re so hungry for my magic baguette that it cannot wait till we are back at your tent?”

“My _God,”_ Hamilton groaned, more from pain than anything else. “Are you trying to spoil my appetite?”

“A little,” Laurens replied. Hamilton’s other hand had slid up to his chest and he was beginning to rock back and forth, eyes closed and mouth slightly open with pleasure. It was just about the goddamn prettiest thing Laurens had ever seen. He slid his hands lower, clenching Hamilton’s ass and provoking another frustrated moan.

“Hey,” said Laurens, leaning forward to whisper into Hamilton’s ear. “Someone might come.”

“Ha. Someone better,” muttered Hamilton, still grinding his hips feverishly.

“Your wit is, as always, unparalleled. But I’m serious.”

“Yeah, okay.” Hamilton sighed, ceasing his ministrations. He climbed off Laurens, holding out a hand to help him up. Laurens took it, allowing Hamilton to heave him to his feet.

“Your tent?”

“It’s closer.”

“Right.”

Hamilton led the way through the maze of strings and canvas, taking the route most likely to be missed by patrol. Despite the befuddling haze of alcohol they were both on hyper-alert, conscious of the tiniest sound. They needn’t have worried; the night was an innocent, merry one. Most had long returned to their tents after the victory celebrations so that the air now hummed with snores, low and rumbling over the chirp of the crickets.

They reached Hamilton’s tent. Hamilton moved the canvas doorway aside and Laurens’ hands flashed immediately to his tiny waist, pulling him into a deep kiss. Hamilton hummed, pleased, and pressed harder against him, rubbing up against his thigh.

“How do you do, spitfire?” asked Laurens, amused, tangling his hand in Hamilton’s hair.

“We won, John,” groaned Hamilton by way of reply. “We won, we won, we won, we won.”

Laurens smiled and kissed him again before forcing him backwards towards the bed.

*

The next morning, Laurens woke up to find the pallet cold and Hamilton not there. He checked the bedside table. There was no note.

A flash of panic jolted him into a sitting position as he cast wildly about the space of the tent, searching for any sign. His desk looked rather as though a canon had hit it, papers and ink wells strewn across every available surface but that was nothing new. Laurens looked down at the floor and saw only his own clothes laying there. So Hamilton had definitely gotten dressed.

Laurens felt cold. It stretched beyond a physical feeling. He hunched his knees and hugged them to his chest.

Fifteen minutes later Laurens, dressed and shaved, was swaggering across the camp towards Lafayette. He was standing on the edge of the training field, overlooking the drills and looking very dashing in his new blue uniform. It would take a man who knew him as well as Laurens did to know that he was posing.

 _“Salut,”_ Laurens greeted him, struggling to secure his ponytail. _“Quoi de neuf?”_

Lafayette shrugged. _“Pas grand-chose,”_ he replied. His eyes darted to Laurens’ hair. “Why are you trying to tie your hair up with that piece of string?”

Laurens made a vague gesture. “I uh…” he cleared his throat. “I couldn’t find a ribbon.”

Lafayette rolled his eyes, having guessed as always the unspoken subtext. Laurens turned around and Lafayette took the string from his hands, holding up his ponytail and tying it off for him.

“Have you seen Alexander?” Laurens asked.

Lafayette shook his head. “I have not,” he replied. “But perhaps one of the others. Look, here are Tench and Richard now.”

Laurens followed Lafayette’s gaze to where the two were slowly making their way towards them. Laurens and Lafayette copied their salute, dropping it quickly when it proved too much of an effort.

“Ugh,” said Tilghman, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. “I feel like shit warmed up. Winning Saratoga was a terrible idea.”

“Would you really have drunk any less had we lost?” Lafayette pointed out.

Tilghman made a conceding gesture. “True.”

“Have either of you gentleman seen Hamilton this morning?” asked Laurens, trying not to belay his anxiety.

Tilghman and Meade shook their heads. “Not this morning no,” said Meade. “The General has sent him on an errand. Gates’ victory means he is now at liberty to siphon off some of his troops to bolster our ranks. He has chosen Hamilton to deliver the good news.”

Laurens felt the blood drain from his face. “Well, when will he be back?”

Meade shrugged. “Two weeks?” he guessed. “Three at most? With the generals, who can say?”

 _Three at most._ The words stuck through Laurens as if someone had dropped an anvil on his stomach. He turned away so that the others wouldn’t see his expression.

“This surrender was exactly what we needed,” Tilghman was saying, oblivious to Laurens’ distress. “Already those who had been on the fence are turning to our side. In some cases, whole countries!”

“How long will it will take for the French to join us, Lafayette?” asked Meade.

“I have already received word from Rochambeau,” Lafayette replied. “There are some formalities to work out, mostly regarding title and command, but I am confident that they will be here by the end of the month.”

“By French time that means within the fortnight,” came a voice from behind. “They’ll surprise us with our trousers down and be so affronted they’ll head straight back.”

Laurens spun round to see Hamilton coming towards them. Relief flared up in his chest, so sudden and powerful that it very nearly knocked him backwards. Hamilton smiled brilliantly at him, touching his hand very subtly before saluting the others.

 “I thought you were off to see Gates?” Tilghman frowned.

Hamilton nodded. “I am,” he replied. “But uh, I’ve got a meeting with Tallmadge first.”

The others at once began to look extremely curious. Hamilton flipped his ponytail over his shoulder, not particularly worried about appearing too smug.

“Be sure to tell us how it goes,” said Meade.

“To be sure, I will not,” said Hamilton.

“Upon your return from Albany then,” Tilghman compromised. “I hear Philip Schuyler has some very beautiful daughters, if you were thinking of making a detour. And the two second eldest still unmarried.”

“I have always preferred to take the scenic route,” agreed Hamilton.

“Hamilton,” said Laurens. “A word, if you please.”

Hamilton’s eyes flickered in surprise to meet Laurens’, widening upon finding them steely. He inclined his head in agreement, offering a final salute before following him away from the training field and back towards the barracks. Laurens kept his step quick. His initial relief upon seeing Hamilton had been swiftly replaced by anger. It was rushing through him like canon-fire, speeding his limbs and making his hands shake with relentless energy to the point that Hamilton, with his much shorter legs, had to run to keep up.

“John,” Hamilton panted as they reached the secluded spot they often used to tie up prisoners. “John, what is it-”

Laurens whirled around, so fiercely that Hamilton flinched instinctively. Laurens regretted it instantly, guilt beginning to seep into the mix of hurt and frustration bubbling away in the pit of his stomach.

“Last night,” Laurens started. “Washington told you to come and see him _last_ night.”

Hamilton looked up and met Laurens’ gaze, holding it levelly as he replied. “Yes.”

A gust of frustration left Laurens as he ran a hand through his messily done hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he appealed desperately. “You could have just said you were leaving in the morning, instead of letting me wake up and find you gone before having to get the news second hand from bloody Dick Meade.”

“Bloody dick,” grinned Hamilton, and when Laurens didn’t smile, “Look. It’s not a big deal, okay? I was going to tell you but I didn’t want to ruin it and then I got drunk and forgot. I’m not immortal. It happens to me too.”

“But why didn’t you leave a note?” Laurens pleaded. “Just something… _anything_ to let me know where you were?”

Hamilton frowned. “I didn’t think about it,” he answered honestly. “I just…I don’t know. I got up and you were all sleeping and sweet…I didn’t want to wake you up or keep Washington waiting so I just got my shit together and headed out. I was obviously going to say goodbye before I left.”

“Oh _obviously,”_ said Laurens sarcastically, crossing his arms.

“Yes, obviously,” Hamilton stared at Laurens, affronted. “Laurens, what the hell? Why is this such a problem?”

“Because,” Laurens was well aware that he was edging dangerously close to pathetic. He persevered anyway. “You, disappearing straight after…it makes me feel _used,_ Alexander. It makes me feel like shit.”

Hamilton’s eyes flashed briefly with something that might have been shame. It was gone as quickly as it had come. “I’m sorry,” he said mockingly. “I didn’t realise I had to give you twelve hours’ notification of all my movements just so you don’t get your stockings in a twist upon waking up to find that I have other priorities-”

“Are you actually serious?” Laurens hissed, furious. “Alexander…I didn’t answer _three_ of your letters and you _blew up_ at me, okay, and now that I’m upset at you for a perfectly legitimate reason suddenly I’m being ridiculous-”

“That was different,” Hamilton snarled, crossing his own arms defensively. “You were in South Carolina, with your father and I was writing to check that you were alright and you didn’t _forget_ to reply, you were purposefully ignoring me.”

“You weren’t writing to check up on me,” said Laurens bluntly. “Lafayette was in Canada, and you were being needy.”

Hamilton pushed him. It carried a surprising amount of force for one so small. Laurens stumbled backwards, hitting his head on a rafter.

“I have to see Tallmadge,” snapped Hamilton, his face hard. “See you in two weeks.”

He left the barracks without a second glance, waiting until he was a good distance away before releasing the long, shaky breath he had been bottling in. He was so angry it was a little suffocating and by the time he had reached Tallmadge’s tent he was slightly out of breath.

“Knock, knock,” said Hamilton irritably outside the tent flap.

“Come in.”

Hamilton lifted the flap and stepped inside.

Ben Tallmadge was bent over at his desk, his shadow cast low over something that looked like a stencil or a template which he was moving over with a magnifying glass. Hamilton took a resentful moment to reflect that Tallmadge’s tent was actually slightly bigger than his own, although it was hard to tell immediately, due to the fact that much of the space was taken up by eggs.

Hamilton picked one up, examining it offhandedly. “Sure you’ve got en _oeuf?”_

“Don’t touch that please,” replied Tallmadge softly, without looking up

Hamilton put it back. He waited patiently, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Tallmadge ignored him, engrossed entirely in his work. Were he any other officer Hamilton would have grown annoyed, assuming his keeping him waiting to be some sort of attempt at power establishment. But Hamilton knew better from Tallmadge, who would rather die than be intentionally impolite.

“You wanted to see me?” he said, when the endearment of Ben’s focus had been overridden by his boredom.

“Oh yes,” Tallmadge set down the magnifying glass, straightening up in his chair. “I’m sorry, that was very rude.”

Hamilton waved dismissively. “Not a problem,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Um,” said Tallmadge, eyes darting uncertainly to the letter laying on his desk meaning Hamilton’s attention was inevitably drawn to it too. “I’ll get straight to the point, I guess. I am right in thinking that His Excellency has sent you to speak to General Gates, regarding the borrowing of his troops?”

“I can see why you’re head of intelligence,” said Hamilton sarcastically, and not at all with a twinge of envy.

Tallmadge laughed nervously. This rather went without saying, Tallmadge did everything slightly nervously. “You’re not so unobservant yourself. I know you’ve noticed that the General and I have been increasingly…on guard, of late.”

Hamilton nodded, raising his eyebrow in a silent question. Tallmadge took a breath. “I think I’ve uncovered a plot.”

Hamilton raised the other eyebrow. “Really?”

“It’s a big one.”

“Oh?”

“I think someone’s trying to assassinate Washington.”

“Oh shit.”

Tallmadge was looking very pained, as if he had just taken a large gulp of unsavoury medicine. “I think it might be someone in Horatio Gates’ camp.”

Hamilton stared at him. Tallmadge held his gaze unblinkingly. It was quite disconcerting, Tallmadge being a spy, and Hamilton had the unsettling feeling he could see right into his soul if he only tried hard enough. Also, his eyes were very blue.

“Are you _insane,”_ Hamilton’s voice came out hushed. “Do you know what it is you’re saying?”

“I know how it sounds,” said Tallmadge quickly. “And I’m not accusing General Gates of anything. At least…not yet. But I have received information of movements seeking to displace Washington as head of the Continental army. I’m not saying that Gates himself would run the risk of sending hired killers into camp but…if someone _were_ planning something, I don’t think he would try _too_ hard to cause obstruction, if you catch my drift.”

“I do indeed,” Hamilton blew out a steady breath, tried to level himself. “What would you have me do?”

Tallmadge ran a finger over his bottom lip. “When was the last time you had opportunity to employ your other…considerable talents?”

Hamilton suppressed a snigger, filing the expression away to tell Laurens later before he remembered that he wasn’t speaking to him.

“Not recently,” he shrugged. “We caught a redcoat spy masquerading as a Son a couple of months back. Nothing to write Congress about.”

“Well this is certainly nothing that need trouble Congress,” said Tallmadge, gritting his teeth. “Nor the General, for that matter. I have taken great pains to keep as much of this as possible from his Excellency, excepting what must necessarily concern him. This matter is one that requires the utmost discretion. If you could dispatch the target as quietly as possible once you identify him…”

“I’ll not raise dust from the carpet,” Hamilton promised him.

Tallmadge looked marginally reassured. “Good,” he said, with a why-must-I-carry-the-weight-of-the-world-on-my-thin-shoulders sigh. “And of course, I must impress that you don’t speak of this with any of the other aides.”

“Of course.”

“That includes John.”

Hamilton looked up from the fingernails he had been inspecting. Tallmadge was looking at him significantly, and Hamilton wondered if he knew. The thought sent a wave of fear coursing through him, as if he had plunged his head into a bucket of icy water. But then if he knew and still hadn’t said anything…

“My lips are sealed,” Hamilton managed at last.

Tallmadge looked grateful. “Thank you, Alex,” he said with feeling. He reached for his magnifying glass. “Also, don’t fight with each other please. We must all hang together, remember.”

Hamilton looked at Tallmadge. His face was turned away from him, appearing absorbed once again in his decoding. It was impossible to tell whether it had been a warning.

“I’ll remember,” Hamilton said finally.

Tallmadge nodded. Hamilton hesitated, deliberating whether he should ask, before simply saluting and took his leave.

*

The ride to Albany was six days hence. Hamilton would make it in five.

He stopped en route only to change horses and snatch sleep where he could, not bothering particularly about food. By the time he clattered into Horatio Gates’ camp the sentinels scattered, surprised into disorder by his arrival, and they were still looking shaken when Hamilton climbed off his horse and flourished his papers.

The General looked up when Hamilton entered his tent, although Hamilton guessed this too was an instinct of surprise. Gates was _definitely_ the sort of officer who would keep a summoned man waiting.

“Hamilton, isn’t it?” asked Gates, taking off his glasses to polish them with his sleeve. “Augustus Hamilton.”

Dislike bubbled hotly in Hamilton’s stomach, however, he tried to keep the anger out of his voice as he replied curtly. “Alexander, sir. I’m afraid my parents had rather loftier ambitions.”

“Clearly,” Gates’ lip curled as he lifted one leg and crossed it over the other. It was a vaguely challenging pose, made all the more aggressive by the number of other officers in the room, all of whom were looking at Hamilton as if he had walked in smelling of something he’d stepped in. “My mistake. And to what do we owe the pleasure, sir?”

“His Excellently, General Washington, lauds your victory at Saratoga,” Hamilton replied, getting straight to the point. “And notes that you are now at liberty to spare some of your troops. I have researched your position thoroughly and conclude that you have a superfluous three brigades who would be far better put to use at Valley Forge. His Excellency commands that you send them immediately.”

“Three brigades,” Gates sputtered, eyes flashing with fury. “You jest, sir. Might I remind you that Henry Clinton is still a threat and might any day march up the Hudson, endangering New England.”

“Clinton’s threat is hypothetical,” Hamilton retorted. “Ours is not. We are outmanned, sir. You have a surplus. From each according to his ability, to each according to his need. One of the founding principles of Mr Jefferson’s Declaration, if I’m not very much mistaken.”

Gates traded an uncertain look with one of his officers, confirming Hamilton’s suspicions. He hadn’t read it.

“You expect me to compromise my own hold on this territory,” Gates snapped. “Undermining everything we have just won, and give up some of my men to prop up Washington’s failures?”

“Not failures but sacrifices,” Hamilton continued, a note of aggression creeping into his tone. “Seeing as most of the fighting has been south of the Hudson up to this point. And might I remind _you,_ sir, that they are not _your_ men, but America’s.”

“Here meaning _Washington’s_ I suppose?”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“Are you comparing him to a Caesar?”

“No,” replied Hamilton, one eyebrow crooked dangerously at Gates. “Are you?”

Gates swallowed. The atmosphere in the room changed abruptly; previously stifling hot, the tent seemed suddenly to have fallen by several degrees. Hamilton noted a few of the officers exchange quick, nervous glances.

Realising his mistake Gates recovered quickly, leaning back in his chair.

“You may have one brigade,” the General relented at last.

Hamilton’s jaw fell open. _“One?!”_

“That is six-hundred men,” the General countered. “More than enough for Washington to hold onto his position. General Patterson will take the command.”

Hamilton drew in a deep breath and exhaled between gritted teeth, counting from ten as he did so. _Calm down,_ he told himself. _Remember why you’re really here._

“Very well,” he accepted tersely. “I take it I shall at least be given leave to expect them beforehand?”

Gates gestured to one of the men behind him who at once stepped forward. “Williams will escort you to the training ground.”

Hamilton inclined his head sarcastically. “Much obliged, General.”

“Thank you, Colonel Hamilton,” replied Gates, equally insincere. He paused before adding, “I wonder at my previous misnomer. It appears much clearer to me now that your countenance is far more Greek than Roman.”

The words were, on the surface, quite civil. Yet Hamilton’s cheeks burned as he kept his gaze decidedly away from the other officers, directing all his fury at the smirk ghosting Gates’ face.

“An unwarranted compliment I’m sure,” he responded stiffly. “Considering Alexander was from Macedon.”

They saluted and Hamilton followed the officer out of the tent, brain buzzing with oaths and insults it had taken every effort not to hurl at the General like a grenadier.

The six-hundred-man brigade Gates had promised was a college class, barely more than a motley crew of adolescents and their elderly school teachers. Hamilton surveyed the contingent with disgust, examining their stores and unearthing weapons which were long outdated, or in terrible condition otherwise. Hamilton whirled on Gates’ officer, enraged.

“Is this a joke?” he demanded.

The officer shrugged. Hamilton swore and sent him away in search of pen and paper. Once he had gone, Hamilton at once began rifling through the cabinet of records, turning over every document for signs of conspiracy. Someone in Gates’ camp was an avid scribe; Hamilton found papers detailing everything from bullet shells to shoelaces but nothing worthy of scrutiny. Tallmadge had taught him a few tricks of the trade and Hamilton had his magnifying glance and decoder sheet with him, still, examining the syntax and trying to decipher odd words brought him nothing.

There was a scuffle at the door and Hamilton almost dropped his magnifying glass. Stuffing it back in his pocket he put the papers away hastily, approaching the door just in time to see the bowed head of a shifty-looking figure, retreating speedily away. Hamilton’s eyes followed him as he cast nervous glances to his left and right, looking very much as though he would rather not be seen.

“Now where are you off to,” Hamilton murmured, deciding quickly that the best way to answer this was to find out himself.

He set off at a measured pace, keeping a wary distance between him and the suspicious-looking man. There were a couple of horses tethered to the ramshackle fence near the back stores; the man mounted one and shook the reigns, trotting out of the encampment and down towards the valley. Hamilton waited until the curve of the hill had swallowed him up before mounting the second and following him into the trees.

After about fifteen minutes or so the trees thinned into a large clearing, in the middle of which sat a generous freestone house. Hamilton waited in the shadow of the trees while his quarry got down from his horse and walked up to the building. As soon as he had disappeared inside he dismounted, staying within the coverage of the trees as he approached the building from the left, mental calculations darting in his head as he quickly scaled it.

Truthfully, Laurens was much better at this than he was. It was one of those times where having long legs and a big reach came in handy. Hamilton climbed up onto the bench propped up against the wall, reaching up to pull himself via the shutters. Once he had both feet planted firmly on the lower window ledge he began to climb, shimmying stealthily along the length of the skirting until he had reached the upper ledge. The window opened from the bottom. Hamilton slipped his nails under the base and hauled upwards until the gap was big enough for him through.

Once inside Hamilton paused, taking a moment to view his surroundings and gather his breath. The room he had broken into was a bedroom, now converted into barracks. He could hear the man moving around downstairs, the heavy weight of his boots followed by the creaking of the floorboards. Hamilton removed his own, placing them gingerly under a cot before leaving the bedroom and making his way cautiously across the landing.

There were only two more rooms on the top floor, another bedroom and a study. Hamilton made a beeline for the latter. The furniture, although not old, was covered in a thick layer of dust, minus a small cabinet in the corner of the room. Hamilton walked up to the cabinet, sliding a lockpick out from the ruffles of his sleeve and set to work. A minute later he heard a satisfying _click_ and the door popped open.

He reached inside. There were a number of documents stacked together, which from what he could make out seemed to be of little or no importance. Tucked in between two drafts for a brigadier force, however, was a letter from a Mr Thomas Conway, addressed to General Gates. Hamilton skimmed over it quickly, his insides dropping further with every word.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Hamilton started, head whipping towards the door. The man stood in the doorway, face whiter than chalk, his eyes narrowed into needle pricks as he stared at Hamilton. He was pointing a gun.

“Mr Conway, I presume,” said Hamilton, masking his initial shock by speaking in a voice of studied calm. “A pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

“Who are you,” Conway spat, taking a step further towards him, gun aimed unwaveringly at his chest. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Funny way to speak to a man dressed in the same colours,” he observed with a nod towards Conway’s blue coat. “And more in common than that, I’ll wager, if you’ll allow me to speak. I have just come from General Gates’ camp, en route from Valley Forge. I have information concerning Washington’s movements, and when he might next chance to be particularly…vulnerable…that I sought to relay to His Excellency, and he advised me to report directly to you.”

Conway’s nervous eyes darted to the window. Hamilton, following his gaze, gestured to it. “You’ll see I was anxious about being followed,” he explained. “Thought it best to avoid prying eyes, you understand.”

“Let me see your papers,” Conway ordered, his voice jumping slightly.

“Certainly,” Hamilton inclined his head, reaching slowly into his pocket.

People often assumed that it was Mulligan who had taught him to fire so quickly. Actually, it was his mother. The moment Hamilton’s fingers grazed the pistol he fired, turning it so suddenly out of the fold of his coat that he nearly shot himself.

Conway screamed in pain, hand going automatically to his arm as the bullet tore through the muscle. Before Hamilton could reload however, Conway was firing his own and Hamilton hurled himself into the bookcase in order to avoid the shot. As he struggled to get back to his feet Conway was staggering towards him still clutching his arm; Hamilton finished loading the pistol and pulled the trigger. Conway released a howl, buckling instantly as blood pooled from his kneecap.

Hamilton straightened up, kicking the pistol away and keeping his own trained on the whimpering Conway as he scanned through the rest of the letter.

“Well, well,” he said calmly, ignoring Conway’s sobs of pain. “You have been busy.” His eyes narrowed as they flickered over the list of familiar names. “George Washington…Nathaniel Greene…Philip Schuyler…what have you got against poor Schuyler?”

“Please,” Conway was pleading, tears coming into his eyes. “Please, don’t kill me-”

Hamilton smacked him across the face with the butt of his pistol. Conway cried out again as his nose smashed, blood blossoming from beneath the splintered cartilage.

“Shut up,” ordered Hamilton. “You’ve got yourself a nice little hit list here. I wonder…these can’t all be under Gates’ orders? What are you then, a lone wolf with a nice little deal set up on the side with those who wouldn’t mind seeing the General supplanted? Ah yes, I can see a few people here it would benefit Charles Lee to be rid of…Israel Putnam…Henry Laurens…tell me, are you planning to take over the _whole_ of Congress?”

“It was Lee’s idea,” Conway babbled. “He hired me. It’s his list, not mine. And there are other names too. I’ll swear them all before a court of law if you’ll only let me live to see trial…”

Hamilton made a shushing gesture, brow furrowing as he caught sight of one particular name, standing out from the others as though the ink were leaping from the paper.

“You were plotting to kill John Laurens,” he stated.

He glanced up, turning his gaze quizzically on Conway. He watched the movement of his throat as Conway swallowed, wide eyes flitting from Hamilton’s frowning face to the letter in his hands.

“It was…purely strategical,” he began hesitantly. “The death of his son would have drawn Laurens senior out of Philadelphia, making him an easier target.”

Hamilton nodded slowly. “Smart,” he said.

He pulled the trigger. The man screamed, tears streaming down his face as the bullet smashed through his other kneecap. Hamilton surveyed his handiwork dispassionately, slipping the pistol back into its holster before taking a step forward and wrapping his fist in the front of the man’s shirt.

“And to think,” he said, making sure to enunciate so that Conway could hear him through his howls. “I was this close to letting you live.”

“Please,” Conway begged, the flood from his nose shiny with blood and mucus. “Please I…I have names…”

“Yes, you said,” agreed Hamilton, unsheathing his knife from his belt. “Unfortunately for you, I’m only interested in one.”

The blade was very sharp, designed to cut quickly. Not exactly suited to his purposes. Outside the house the birds perching on the trees took flight, leaving the branches trembling in the wind. At the edge of the forest, the valley was silent.

*

Two weeks had passed. Hamilton had still not returned, and Laurens was trying very hard to cover up that he was nervous.

It had only taken about an hour after his heated conversation with Hamilton for him to repent everything he had said. Quite apart from the fact that he had, in hindsight, really quite embarrassed himself, as the days went by without sign of him Laurens found himself plagued wondering whether they had been the last words he’d ever say to him. This would be less than ideal. Laurens, who had every intention of leaving this world before Alexander, had spent a lot of time thinking about the last words he planned to say to him and a great effort in securing for them an appropriate hiding place. He did not want his hard work to go to waste.

When finally the evenings of long silence and playing Solitaire alone in his tent proved too much to bear, he decided to try his luck with Tallmadge. He didn’t think he would tell him anything, but there was always the chance that if Laurens annoyed him enough, he would let something slip. Use of torture on fellow members of the Continental Army was decidedly frowned upon in the interests of camaraderie, still. Laurens could be very annoying.

This decision in mind, Laurens left his tent and headed for Tallmadge’s on the other side of camp. On the way, he noticed a cart bumping along the dirt road; lifting a hand over his eyes revealed it to be bearing vegetables and blankets, yet there had been no word of a supplier arriving today. Curious, Laurens moved to approach it, lifting his arm in salute which the driver returned.

“Good evening,” Laurens greeted him, eyes roving suspiciously over the cargo. “What is it you’re carrying?”

The driver’s hat was pulled low over his brow, obscuring most of his face. What wasn’t hidden by the brim was covered by his scarf, through which his voice came muffled. “Couple of blankets. Few cabbages, casket of rum. Nothing that might warrant your bother if I might presume, sir.”

“We’ve received no word of rations arriving today,” Laurens frowned. “On whose orders are you acting?”

“Acting on initiative, sir.”

“Who’s initiative?”

“A Major Al Grant.”

“Al Grant?” Laurens echoed, nonplussed. “Who the hell is Al Grant?”

“Al Grant you a kiss,” said the driver. “If you let me through.”

Laurens stared, exasperation mixed with the pure thrill of relief as the driver took off his hat and yanked down his scarf, revealing a familiar toothy grin.

“Hey,” said Hamilton.

“Literally what is wrong with you,” said Laurens.

Hamilton shrugged, twirling the horsewhip in his hands as he smacked a fly off the donkey. “Did I fool you?”

“I mean, the accent was a bit of a giveaway. What was that supposed to be, Scottish?”

“Irish,” replied Hamilton. “I was trying to sound like McHenry. Oh well. Guess I need to keep practicing if I’m going to accommodate my flair for the dramatic.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” Laurens raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the cart.

“I mean, there _is_ a story,” Hamilton answered. “But it’s a long one. Safe to say I had a fucking time of it getting back, you have no idea.”

“Clearly,” answered Laurens. He was grinning. Now that Hamilton was back, he couldn’t stop.

Hamilton smiled. Laurens stepped forward, sliding his hand up the side of Hamilton’s breeches and hooking his little finger in the inside of his boot. Hamilton hesitated, sending a quick look over his shoulder to check that there was no one around before surrendering to the curl of Laurens’ fist in his shirt, dragging him down to kiss him.

He tasted of beer and ground coffee, the chief fuel for a man on the road. Hamilton released him with a soft “Mmft”, thumb briefly brushing the back of Laurens’ neck before he pushed him away.

“I have to see Ben,” he said.

Laurens nodded. “Where should I wait?”

Hamilton chewed his lip, eyes flickering over the length of the camp as if scanning each individual tent for availability. “The woods,” he answered at last. “Near Black Creek.”

Laurens nodded again. Hamilton pulled his hat back down over his eyes and gave the donkey a nudge, giving Laurens a final ironic salute before continuing on his way. Laurens watched him go, shaking his head in disbelief before heading for the woods.

The trees on the edge of the camp grew very thick together. Laurens treaded through them with practiced feet, thinking of all the times he had come here with his bow and his gun. Few men ventured as far as the creek, and only then under specific orders. There was something about the wilderness, Laurens knew, that bothered them; a sinister mystery about the spindle-sharp black trunks and muddy brooks that was less of the picturesque and closer to the hostile. Another potential enemy, wilder and less predictable than the British. An enemy Laurens knew would be waiting for them once the fighting was done, in the form of a terrifying and uncharted frontier.

Laurens waited in the shadow of the trees, his back against the bark. He breathed in deeply, taking in the smell of the pine, rich and clean through the damp earth. As at home as he was in them, the woods bothered him too. Not because they were strange to him, but because they were familiar. Before Hamilton, he had often found himself waking in the middle of the night and felt their branches creaking through the gaps of his ribcage, crowding his lungs. During the night of confessions he had told Alex about it, and Hamilton had responded with furious determination, grabbing an axe as if with sheer, vengeful hacking he could succeed in pruning it back.

Hamilton had never been one to fear darkness.

A twig snapped underfoot and Laurens whipped round. Hamilton was there, making his way carefully through the bracken. He had taken off his disguise and was now wearing nothing but his shirt and breeches. Laurens didn’t move, conscious of his skin prickling in anticipation, the quickening of his heart as Hamilton stopped in front of him.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. Then Laurens, feeling awkward, broke the silence.

“I take it Ben was satisfied with your performance?” he asked.

Hamilton inclined his head. “He was.”

“I was on my way to see him when I met you.”

“Oh?”

Laurens nodded. He hesitated, deliberating his next words in his head before suddenly, they were spilling out. “I was worried about you,” he confessed. “I wanted to ask where you’d gone.”

Hamilton fixed him with a level, piercing look. Laurens felt his cheeks warm instantly. “He might have told you,” he said, voice casual. “He likes you.”

“He prefers you,” Laurens pointed out.

“He likes us both,” Hamilton countered, taking another step forward. “He told us not to fight anymore. Says it makes him stressed.” He moved so that he was close enough to wrap his fists in Laurens’ lapel. “We have been very selfish John,” he whispered, dark blue eyes blown wide. “He is already under so much pressure.”

Hamilton was gazing up at him, eyelashes long and trembling, red mouth slightly parted. It was very obviously an apology. Laurens’ pulse fluttered and skipped in his neck. “God, I missed you,” he breathed.

Hamilton smiled, roses blushing in his cheeks. “I’m never gone for long.”

“Makes no difference. I miss you when you’re close to me. I miss you even now.”

“I love you,” said Hamilton, and kissed him.

Hamilton’s mouth, as cruelly familiar as the branches in Laurens’ ribcage, was nonetheless as gentle to Laurens as he was punishing to himself. He was hot; just as hot and soft as Laurens had fantasised these past few nights, touching himself miserably beneath the sheets and never feeling more alone. He moaned, opening his mouth to take in more of him as Hamilton pushed him back against the tree, so hard that the bark cut into his palms. He slid his tongue in between Hamilton’s teeth and Hamilton sucked on it, drawing one hand down to cup Laurens between his legs.

Laurens’ hips stuttered, a low, guttural moan escaping as Hamilton began to rub him through his breeches. He grit his teeth, torn between the unbearable pleasure rising in his cock and the feeling of Hamilton sucking wetly at the thin juncture between shoulder and neck.

Around them leaves rustled, wind blowing mournfully through the gaps in the trees. Hamilton remembered the house and the clearing, the heavy flutter of birds’ wings in flight as Thomas Conway breathed his last. He thought about the name _John Laurens,_ shining thickly as quicksilver against the yellow parchment. Laurens, his Laurens. Who could have been dead before the month was out, if Ben Tallmadge had been a little less nervous.

At this thought he sped up his pace, kissing him fiercely, desperately as with his other arm he pulled him closer, pinning Laurens in a hold between himself and the tree. Laurens whimpered, the sensation of being trapped like this against him almost too much. His heart was galloping inside his chest, so painfully frantic with love and repentance that he thought it might break out. The heat in his abdomen was building so close it was agonising; he had barely opened his mouth to warn Hamilton when he was coming, spilling all over himself with his cock barely out of his breeches.

Hamilton released his hold and dug around in his pocket for a handkerchief, cleaning Laurens quickly and efficiently before chucking it into the undergrowth. He waited for him to get his breath back, watching with thinly veiled desire as Laurens’ head fell back against the tree, displaying the stark column of his throat and his racing pulse, still leaping visibly beneath the skin.

“Alright?” Hamilton whispered when his breathing began to slow.

Laurens nodded shakily, raising his hand to clasp the back of Hamilton’s neck. They kissed slowly, deeply, enough to make Hamilton’s already inquisitive cock stir with interest before Laurens let him go, moving instead to take his hand.

“We should be getting back,” Hamilton told him.

Laurens nodded again. Chewed his lip. “I love you,” he said.

Hamilton smiled, and squeezed his hand.

By the time they got back, the camp was in a flurry. Word had it the body of one of Horatio Gates’ men had been found in a ditch not far from a converted freestone, the letter he had been carrying stolen and copied. Gates was fuming, not quite accusing the staff at Valley Forge of perjury and murder, but getting close enough that rumours of a plot to assassinate the leader of the Continental Army were starting to sound quite comfortingly ridiculous.

Meanwhile, Washington had filed an order of court martial against Charles Lee.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for my experimentation with old timey-language, it doesn't come naturally to me.
> 
> as with most things I write this turned out to be a lot longer than intended, sorry also about that. Thank you very much for reading, please let me know if u enjoyed it. 
> 
> find me as always on [tumblr](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/)


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